


somehow the vital connection is made

by servetas



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: (non-graphic), Banter, First Time, Flirting, Fluff, M/M, Pillow Talk, Reminiscing, he deserves better......he deserves it all, i guess??, it's VERY sweet trust me, like that's it i think it's just fluff and revenge on mickey's characterisation in the early seasons, uh.....here we go
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-16
Updated: 2020-04-16
Packaged: 2021-03-02 05:28:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23669908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/servetas/pseuds/servetas
Summary: And Mickey, for the life of him, doesn’t know how to respond to that. He knows more than anyone how long he’s been waiting for this; aching to be kissed like he never has before, never in a way that was fucking meaningless and only a way to keep people’s mouths shut, with girls who didn’t give two shits about him and for whom he returned the sentiment, just so the word got around and Terry would give him that disgusting fucking clap on the back he so craved. Mickey’s never been kissed in a way that matters, and God knows he is aching for it with every inch of his being.It could be his first kiss. Mickey dodges Ian’s face, lies back down and replaces what could have been heaven with his cigarette.or, as tough as he wants people to think he is, mickey secretly aches to be kissed
Relationships: Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Comments: 13
Kudos: 202





	somehow the vital connection is made

In the simplest of words, Mickey once again finds himself completely and utterly  _ fucked  _ – both literally and metaphorically.

His arms give out on him, collapsing under his limp weight and his tight muscles, and he falls forward onto his bed, the spunk on his stomach smearing and smudging all over his sheets. Usually, he’s careful about it; there’s no lounging about after he rubs one out, not until he walks into the bathroom and gets himself cleaned up, before Mandy can see the stains on his sheets while they’re washing them and tease him about it, or even be exposed to the thought of her brother in any sort of sexual position.

Well, usually, he is painfully and comfortably  _ alone. _

A weight gives out on top of him, nudging themselves further into him by default, and he hisses at his own sensitivity. Softly, he shakes him away with a shoulder, and sighs out a painful breath as he once again finds himself completely empty, and another taut, long body sprawls out next to him on the bed.

The cold sunlight cracking through the open window is making Gallagher’s already pale skin look absolutely see-through – if anyone asks, Mickey is absolutely  _ not  _ fucking observing him. He is sitting there, basking in the afterglow, cheek smudged against his pillow as he peers up at his bedmate, with eyes nothing short of hungry. Or scared. Scared of the implications of this, of just how big Gallagher’s mouth can get.

He supposes he can call him by his name. They’re familiar enough for that.

Ian, breathing heavily and having flushed all over, lazily lolls his head to the side so that their eyes meet, and cockily smiles once he catches Mickey ogling him. In any other circumstance, Mickey would deny it, look away or even deliver a few punches for the mere implication of having let his guard down; but he’s too lax, his muscles too nicely tight for him to do anything other than snort a laugh into his pillow, muffled and soft.

“Please tell me I didn’t fuckin’ pop your cherry or somethin’, Strawberry Shortcake,” he manages to say, his throat too fucking dry and his position too fucking pleasant for him to dress it in a usual malicious tone. Because of that, it comes out sounding almost… fond. Nice.  _ Easy. _

And it is. He and Gallagher go way fucking back, even if he’s the only one in this world who knows it.

Ian doesn’t have the heart to sound offended about it. Instead, his hand lolls away from his body, softly grazing Mickey’s back in a way that gives him gooseflesh. If Ian notices, he doesn’t comment on it. “Will it turn you on if I say yes?”

Another laugh bubbles out of Mickey’s chest. Someone failed to send him the memo that he is bound to turn into a fucking giggly schoolgirl within a two meter radius of a hot guy. “Fuck no. Too much responsibility. Would have to make an honest woman out of you and shit. No, thank you.”

“Well, you’ll be happy to know you’re far from the first,” Ian says. He hasn’t even rolled the goddamn condom off. “I don’t know if I can say the same about myself. Go ahead,” he presses his knuckles down onto Mickey’s shoulder-blade, emphasizing the pleasant ache already present there somewhere. “Spill the beans.”

Mickey groans into his pillow at the pressure of Ian’s hand. The fact that he should be springing up and kicking him out of the house as soon as he was done with him is a constant reminder at the back of his head – but Terry’s on a drug run with Joey and Iggy, and Mandy’s at work, and Ian’s way too warm and cute and sleepy next to him for Mickey not to feel  _ something. _ If he was half as rough as he wants people to believe, Ian would be at the other side of the front door with his dick in his hand, but he’s not. And he won’t be any time soon.

God, Mickey really wants a fucking smoke right now. And a kiss. In no particular order.

“Fine. Don’t gotta answer,” Ian shrugs, practically reading his fucking thoughts as he digs into his discarded jacket and pulls out a packet of smokes, balancing one between his lips and raising his eyebrows when Mickey’s mouth practically begins salivating. “Want one?”

“Ugh, I fucking  _ love  _ you,” Mickey mumbles against his pillow, shaking his head at Ian’s incredulous expression. A cigarette is placed between his lips without him even having to think about moving. 

“Easy there, tiger,” Ian tuts, dumping the packet back onto the floor. He sits up, and his abs glisten with the leftover sweat. Mickey vaguely thinks he could go again. “Save it for the third fucking session. You gotta lighter?”

Mickey, ignoring the flip his stomach gives at the prospect of there even being a second fucking session, nods towards Ian’s right. “First drawer.”

Ian lights his fag –  _ ha _ – with the lighter Mickey stole out of the pocket of the first and only guy that ever blew him, a long time ago, some fucking dipshit in a back alley somewhere. Mickey had been sixteen, and the guy had been obviously fucking older – but Mickey saw no ring and no pictures of kids in his wallet and had figured, what the hell? As long as he ain’t a homewrecker alongside being a fairy, what could it hurt?

“What are you even here for?” Mickey inquires, once his own fag is all lit up and smoking up the front of his face. He drags his aching arm up and pulls it out of his mouth, pleasantly exhaling it with a sigh of relief.

Ian’s eyebrows slope together as he tries to remember. “Fucking… Mandy? I think,” he says, shaking his head as he leans down so that his nose brushes into Mickey’s neck. “Doesn’t matter now.”

“Lay off,” Mickey mutters, writhing around so that he’s on his back instead of his stomach, able to smoke properly. Ian draws shapes into his lower stomach with an enticing finger. “Gotta leave before she gets off work, you know.”

“I should go pick her up,” Ian says, smiling as an afterthought. “Are you  _ asking  _ me to leave?”

It’s a valid question. Mickey can’t really give a straight answer, for a myriad of reasons, starting with the way Ian’s hair is starting to curl because of the sweat. Mickey’s tempted to break into his house and steal whatever the fuck gay straighteners are the reason why he’s never seen him all curly before. “Suppose I could get a couple more rounds out of you, big guy,” he grins, blowing the smoke out directly into Ian’s face.

His breath hitches when Ian’s warmth starts to radiate closer, a product of him leaning into Mickey’s personal space, looking like he wants to slot their mouths together. He pauses a few inches away from Mickey’s mouth, eyes searching his face for any sign of agreement. When he gets none, he licks his bottom lip: “You okay with this?”

And Mickey, for the life of him, doesn’t know how to respond to that. He knows more than anyone how long he’s been waiting for this; aching to be kissed like he never has before, never in a way that was fucking meaningless and only a way to keep people’s mouths shut, with girls who didn’t give two shits about him and for whom he returned the sentiment, just so the word got around and Terry would give him that disgusting fucking clap on the back he so craved. Mickey’s never been kissed in a way that matters, and God knows he is aching for it with every inch of his being.

It could be his first kiss. Mickey dodges Ian’s face, lies back down and replaces what could have been heaven with his cigarette.

Gallagher says nothing, bless him. He smiles fondly, and he casually scratches an itch on his hip, and it’s all so casual it’s killing Mickey because he’s never  _ had  _ this; he’s never basked in the afterglow before, never let it linger on further than the recomposure and the regaining of his normal heartbeat, never had anybody fucking rest in his bed after. And Ian doesn’t seem vengeful or mad or anything that Mickey would hate right now; he is all smiley and easy and sweet, all of the things he didn’t know he wanted. Since when has Mickey fucking craved the normalcy of a relationship?

“Ah, shit,” Ian mumbles, and Mickey follows his eyes down to his cock, still trapped within the nylon. “It’s starting to itch now.”

Despite himself, Mickey bursts out into laughter at Ian’s delivery, and he slaps his hand away as he tries to roll it out himself. Instead, Mickey balances his cigarette between his lips and tries not to smile too much before he trails his own hand down, keeping the eye contact going for just a moment. He efficiently pulls the condom off, trying not to scrunch his face up at the feel and contents of it, carelessly tossing it towards the floor of his glowy bedroom. Ian’s bare cock looks pathetic as it twitches against his leg.

“Should have done it with your teeth,” Ian mumbles after a warm beat. Their eyes have yet to burn physical holes on each other, surprisingly. “Much hotter. Friendly advice.”

“Nah, man, I’m gettin’ old now,” Mickey jokes, smoke rushing out his nostrils with his breathy chuckle. “Little shits are fuckin’ looking for an excuse to fall out on me. How old are you now, anyway, Gallagher? Seventeen?”

“Try twenty-one, old man.”

“Huh,” Mickey hums, as if in thought. Ian looks like the definition of amused, chewing on his bottom lip as smoke files out through his own nostrils, fingers absently stroking down Mickey’s arm. “Seems like it was just yesterday you were the little fairy lettin’ Mandy put makeup on you.”

Ian pauses. “You remember that?”

Mickey remembers. He remembers because he had walked in on them after a drug run with his dad, and he had only managed to scrunch up his nose in faux disgust as he made a beeline for his room; the same one in which the little pansy is lounging in, all grown up, having just finished giving Mickey the fuck of his life. He remembers thinking how good it must have felt. To be some variation of fucking free.

“Remember a lot of stuff,” he says, bravely. Brave because Ian is bound to start asking questions, and Mickey’s bound to embarrass himself.

And as if on cue: “I’m all ears.”

Mickey pretends to be bothered by it, like he hasn’t been waiting for a chance to sit down and have a chat with Gallagher for years now, unburdened by the need to be closed off and stone cold, forced down upon him since the dawn of time. He lolls his head to the side lazily, and Ian’s smiling at him like he’s baked; but he’s not, and it makes Mickey feel lightheaded.

“Well,” he begins, blowing out some smoke as a form of punctuation, “for starters, I remember that pansy-ass orange jacket you always used to wear.”

Ian laughs at the memory, eyes sparkling beautifully. “I still have it.”

“Of course you do,” Mickey mutters. “Always thought that piece of shit was so ugly. And you’d think gay guys have taste.”

“They do,” Ian nudges, waiting for Mickey to look at him. “If they sleep with me.”

Mickey stares for all about two seconds, and then he can’t help himself, he’s back to giggling it up like some fucking chick, barely breathing out: “You’re a fucking dick,” between the titters.

Commercial break aside, Ian doesn’t leave him be. “What else do you remember?”

And Mickey sort of falters under the scrutiny of Ian’s eyes; not judging or dissecting, but curious, soft, looking at him as if he has something worthwhile to say, something he has never heard the likes of before. Mickey hopes his face doesn’t reflect this sentiment.

“Uh,” he begins, ever so smart, and Ian laughs knowingly under the shine of the blue sunlight, “I just– I remember you always trailing after Mandy like some lost fuckin’ puppy,” he shrugs, Ian’s breaths warm against his shoulder. “I remember you being the fuckin’ definition of a redheaded stepchild… Fucking freckles and shit.”

Ian laughs again, his hand pleasant on Mickey’s hip. “Still have ‘em, man.”

“Practically goddamn gone now,” Mickey tuts, as if the fact is an annoyance, and he slaps a hand over Ian’s cheek softly for emphasis. “All grown up now. Ain’t cute no more.”

“Huh,” Ian says thoughtfully, mouth lazily trailing across the skin of Mickey’s shoulder. “Nobody’s ever said that to me before.”

“About time,” Mickey jokes, leaning over to stump his cigarette over on the ashtray on Ian’s right, draping himself over his body in the process. “You’ve turned cocky on me, Red,” he says as he glues his front against Ian’s, the vibrations of Ian’s laughter sending chills down his spine. 

“Think you can turn me right?” Ian pushes, pulling a hand through Mickey’s disheveled hair.

“I can try.”

It’s magnetism. First, Mickey looks into Ian’s eyes, and then he can’t look away, as much as he tries. He’s dazed, and stuck, and loving every second of it – and Ian isn’t even smiling at him like Mickey is, he’s just staring, doing his best not to surge forward and make them one. And Mickey can tell. He can always tell.

_ “God,” _ Ian shakes his head, nose bumping against Mickey’s cheek with his movement, “stop making me wanna kiss you, you fucking tease.”

“So, I’m a tease now,” Mickey says, and he presses his lips against Ian’s cheeks, letting them linger there and delivering a sweet peck, the only thing he allows himself to indulge in. Ian looks dumbstruck. “What does  _ this  _ make me?”

Ian is still staring at him. “A fucking pain.”

Mickey is delighted about it, much more so than he should be, and he lets his mouth leave dozens of tiny kisses along Ian’s neck, watching the skin flush under his attention. There’s hands kneading his upper back, his ass, his thighs.

“All this,” Ian breathes, “and I still don’t get a proper kiss?”

Mickey pauses. “Gotta earn it.”

Ian’s mouth slowly pulls into a mischievous smile, eyes filling with mirth and spilling down over his cheeks, overfilling Mickey’s heart with something so unknown to him it’s bordering on insanity. He doesn’t know how Ian’s gotta earn it, and he briefly realizes he didn’t mean it the way Ian got it; anything sexual has now slipped his mind, replaced with the need for emotional gratification, something he has never thought was possible, but is now seeing in the horizon as some sort of possibility. Maybe sex can be like this all the time.

“Earn it?” Ian smiles, finger lazily slipping between Mickey’s crack and gliding through his opening, getting a satisfied sigh out of him. “What will  _ this  _ get me?”

Mickey rolls his eyes, somehow flirtatiously. “Another great fuck.”

Ian laughs, continuing to lazily pump his fingers in and out, Mickey keening into his neck. “Think you can come again like this?” he whispers into his hair, intimately, like it’s a secret only the two of them can know. Mickey reminds himself that it doesn’t have to be. “Kinda milked me already, man. Gotta go pick up Mandy from work in a bit.”

“I could, but that’s no fun,” Mickey mumbles into his skin, half-heartedly slapping the hand away from his ass. Ian obediently slides the fingers out, wiping them on Mickey’s sheets. He lets it slide. “What are you doing tonight, Hotshot?”

“Whatever you want me to,” Ian grins, letting Mickey undrape his body from his. He’s still half on top of him, don’t get it twisted – just, more comfortable. “Not passing up the chance to fuck Mickey Milkovich again, man. You’re a mystery.”

Mickey laughs.  _ “Ha _ . The only mystery here has been revealed, Red. Finally know whether the carpet matches the drapes,” he says, and Ian looks at him with an amused glint in his eye. “Been wondering for ages. Good for you, Ginger.”

He snorts, raising a delicate eyebrow. “Been wondering, you say?”

Mickey shrugs, figuring that he has embarrassed himself already. A little more wouldn’t hurt. “Aha. Had a crush on you through school, Firecrotch,” he admits, tutting as Ian’s eyes immediately sparkle. “Don’t get all cocky on me, man, _ please.” _

But he does. “A fucking _ crush,” _ he laughs, but it’s not mocking. Mostly disbelieving – happy. “Was that before or after you stabbed me with a fuckin’ pencil in the first grade?”

“After,” says Mickey, casual. “Saw you take the stabbing like a man and thought,  _ huh. _ Strong little fucker. Cute, too – all freckly and pale and alien-looking and shit.”

“Sure you had a crush on me?”

“Fucking–  _ Yes,” _ Mickey laughs, swatting him on the chest. Ian holds his hand there. “I’ve always liked them fuckin’ ugly-hot and shit. And it was fine when we were kids, I guess. It got out of fucking hand later on.”

Ian stares at him. “In our teens, too?”

Mickey nods, feeling the mirth dripping through his irises. “God, why am I  _ talking  _ about this?” he drags a hand down his face, not wanting to stop. “Why do you think I kept hanging out with you two douchebags in the other room? Think I was interested in whatever gay fucking rom-coms you two kept watching?” he points out, and something clicks in Ian’s head. “Hell no.”

“No fucking way,” Ian breathes, dreamily, one hand behind his head as he stares at the ceiling. “This is so dreamy.”

Mickey bursts into laughter, reaching over Ian to grab his discarded boxers. “Whatever, man,” he says, pulling them on with his eyes on Ian’s. Ian’s still staring at the ceiling, as if all the signs from so many years ago are going through his head. “Hey,” he snaps his fingers in front of Ian’s face, pulling him out of it, “you gonna keep thinking about it or go pick my sister up from work?”

Ian laughs under his breath, amused, and he bends down to pick up the clothes that were ripped off of him an hour or so ago, putting them on lazily, taking his time. Mickey observes the flexing muscles of his back and shoulders as he does so, there for his own viewing pleasure. “You don’t  _ want  _ me to go, really,” Ian says after a moment, tying his shoe. Mickey snorts. “You just need to miss me a bit. I know guys like you.”

“That’s impossible. I’m one of a kind,” Mickey says, just before he leans over and places a faint kiss on Ian’s clothed back. He lets him stand up, surprisingly not feeling exposed in only his underwear. “I’ll see you tonight, though, won’t I? Not enough time to miss you.”

“Should probably ghost you for a few weeks,” the side of Ian’s mouth quirks up, rolling his tight shoulders pleasantly. “Plenty of time to miss me.”

Mickey just stares at him, with an easy smile plastered on his face. They sit like this for a second or so, stuck in time. “Would it be too pansy of me to say I kinda miss this already?”

Ian looks caught off guard, but in the best sense. “Incredibly pansy.”

To his surprise, he only shrugs, and watches as Ian gives him another pearly smile and nods his goodbye, hand twisting around the knob of Mickey’s door. But then something makes him move, something beyond his control, and he’s off the bed in seconds.

“Fuck– Gallagher!”

Ian pauses, turning around with a joke ready on his lips, but it gets caught in his throat when Mickey’s already so close to him, the tips of Ian’s shoes and Mickey’s bare feet touching, and Mickey’s arms lock behind Ian’s neck to give him a sweet kiss; his first meaningful one, a promise for the future, a kiss so nice and easy and slick that it makes him dizzy just to think about, and lightheaded to deliver. Ian’s hands lock behind his waist, and his hair is being played with lazily, and the kiss feels never-ending until Mickey finally sucks on Ian’s bottom lip and lets his mouth go, nuzzling his nose against the side of it and looking up with half-lidded eyes, only to be presented with Ian’s calm irises peering down at him like he’s the only one in his world.

“Um,” Ian clears his throat, mouth so wet and swollen it makes Mickey giddy, “how ‘bout we, uh, grab some dinner before we head back to my place tonight?” He digs his teeth into his lip, as if he’s holding himself back from surging forward again.

Mickey snorts. “What happened to ghosting me for a few weeks, big guy?”

“Something came up,” Ian smiles, relishing in the breath of laughter Mickey releases on his jaw. “Does that sound like a plan?”

Mickey peers up at him, the intensity of Ian’s stare causing him to press a tiny kiss on the side of his mouth in retaliation. “Sounds like a date.”

Seemingly not able to help himself, Ian reaches down and presses another chaste kiss on his mouth, and then he’s out in milliseconds, grabbing his coat from the couch before he makes a swift exit – knowing that another second in Mickey’s presence would mean Mandy would probably end up sleeping on the sidewalk outside her work for today. Mickey knows this, but he still curses Mandy’s inability to get that dreaded fucking driver’s licence under his breath.

He collapses down on his bed on his back, the blue ray of sunshine that he is seriously thinking of naming after Ian’s eyes warmly marking his face, and he lies there, in another sort of afterglow. With his hands behind his eyes, he thinks he can make out the shadow of Ian’s cupid’s bow cast on the ceiling.


End file.
